


Looking Glass

by blackmare, Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Being Lost, Friendship, Gen, Road Trips, in need of a map
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmare/pseuds/blackmare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Title:</b>  Looking Glass           <br/><b>Authors:</b>   and <b>Characters:</b>  House, Wilson, a dash of Cuddy, and a few OCs       <br/><b>Rating:</b>  PG-13     <br/><b>Warnings:</b>  No    <br/><b>Spoilers:</b>  None<br/><b>Summary:</b> House knew they shouldn't have taken that exit.  4,564 words (in this chapter).<br/><b>Disclaimer:</b>  Don't own 'em.  Never will.  <br/><b>Author Notes:</b> This AU story was sparked by <a href="http://blackmare-9.tumblr.com/post/42648703200/unknown-photographer-from-luminous-lint-com-in">this late 19th-century albumen print photograph</a>.  As Blackmare noted, <i>"In my mind, the Camera Obscura becomes something inexplicable, perhaps a distant twisted cousin of the Wardrobe that leads to Narnia."</i>  So that's what we wrote, although in this fic, it's not quite Narnia.  This is also a story in three parts.  Chapter Two will be posted tomorrow night, and Chapter Three, Thursday night.<br/><b>Beta:</b> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Camera Obscura

**_Looking Glass_ **

_Chapter One: Camera Obscura_

 

"You're sure you left Cuddy a note?"

House glances over at Wilson. Wilson's hands rest lightly on the steering wheel; he's wearing his favorite sunglasses and for once he's turned off the GPS.

"Yes, _mom_ , I left her a note," House says.

"So she knows you'll be gone the whole weekend," Wilson says. "The long weekend, plus the extra day."

" _Yes_ , I left the note," House says again. He shifts around a bit in the Volvo's leather seat, stretches out his legs. "And if you don't shut up, I'll tell you what it said. Relax," he says. "I have lots of time." 

He cracks the window so a thin draft of air rushes in. He can already smell the ocean.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy sighs as she reads the note again. She'd found it on her desk that morning, a sheet of yellow legal paper slowly uncurling from its rolled-up position inside an empty Bacardi rum bottle sealed with a cork and a glob of red wax. Removing the message was a challenge she briefly thought of solving by smashing the bottle to its component atoms, but no; sadly, she was the designated adult around this place. _Gonna need a forceps_ , she thought, and that was when she noticed she had one. A hemostat, which _someone_ had left resting on top of her _OUT_ box.

_I reckon Wilson and I_ , the letter reads, _got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Lisa she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before._

She sits back in her chair and buzzes her admin.

"Adam? House doesn't have any vacation days left, does he?"

"Are you kidding?" her assistant says. "This is a joke, right?"

"That's what I thought. Thanks, Adam." She sets the note aside and sighs again. 

She wishes the rum bottle was full.

* * *

"I'm going to see the lighthouse," Wilson had said, when he took a surprise exit off the interstate. "FYI, any bitching about it won't stop me."

Great, House had thought. Captain History rides again. That was fifteen endless minutes ago, and now here they are at the edge of Port Podunk, slowing down so Wilson can read the big wooden WELCOME TO sign.

"Seems I was wrong," House says, waving at the montage of faded business names. "There's plenty of fun to be found, right here in East Barnacle-on-your-butt!"

"You don't actually _have_ to be a dick about it."

"It's my vacation too, you know. And it's not East Barnacle-on-your-dick unless you've got a communicable disease."

Wilson keeps his eyes on the road, head tilted down, like House can't tell when he's trying not to laugh.

* * *

The Very Historical Lighthouse turns out to be closed for renovation, and for a moment, House thinks that'll be the end of this misguided detour. Thing is, he can smell food from somewhere along the beach, and he's hungry, and oh _shit_.

Wilson just saw some _other_ useless thing.

* * *

Wilson goes in alone, because really, House isn't that interested. It's a _camera obscura_ , what else is it going to be? Creaky, historical, and boring. He already knows what it looks like -- a garden shed on wheels, painted like a carnival sideshow. All that's going to be inside is an empty room, a hole drilled in one wall to let the light in, possibly a white sheet tacked up on the opposite wall as a cheap projection screen.

House limps down the sagging little boardwalk and buys two hot dogs at a bright yellow stand from a kid in a very stupid hat. There are two empty tables with umbrellas, and he claims one. He waits in the shade, the slow rush of the waves and the shouts of beach-goers echoing in his ears. The ocean soothes his senses, and it's not until ten minutes have passed and the hot dogs are gone that he realizes Wilson hasn't come out yet.

Still, it's not like he wants to drag his gimpy leg up that pitiful excuse for steps -- it's more of a short ladder, really, which raises the question _a ladder to where?_ So instead he raps on the side of the shed with his cane.

Nothing.

He raps again, harder. "Wilson! Come on!"

No answer, except for a gull that hovers overhead, squawking inquisitively.

"Go away," House mutters. "Hey! _Wilson!_ "

It's clear that Wilson is fucking with him, and not in a very imaginative way.

"Fine," House says. "Fine."

At the top step he hesitates. Here, so close to the shed, the noises from the beach are blocked, and it's ... quiet.

"Wilson?"

He puts his hand on the doorknob; it's brass and sun-warmed and turns easily in his grasp. The door opens inward, some small part of his brain notices. As if he's entering a home.

And that's when he sees that the shed has _two_ doors. There's the one he just entered, and a second one, wide open, offering the view of a landscape and James Wilson's back.

House would know that hands-on-hips pose anywhere.

* * *

"House." Wilson is squinting in the late afternoon sunlight, which is pretty damn strange, seeing as it's mid-morning. He nods back at the shed, which now looks like some kind of garden arbor, grown over with roses. "You walked down those steps."

"Never mind the -- " _steps_ , House starts to say, and then it hits him. What Wilson means. He'd been distracted, confused, and hadn't realized. He tests his weight, all of his weight, on his right leg. It holds him.

It doesn't hurt.

It _holds_ him, and he looks around.

The beach is gone. They're standing in someone's garden, or the edge of a garden, the green grass ending at a border of neatly tended rows of corn, beans, squash, and a bunch of other plants House doesn't bother to categorize. A clothesline stands a few feet away, shirts and socks flapping lazily in the breeze. He turns around. The door he came through -- the _Camera Obscura_ door -- hangs open, and House takes an instinctive step forward, towards it, until he can see straight through the shed.

Straight through to the other door.

_The beach is back there_ , he thinks. _The beach, and waves, and hot dogs and seagulls._

He looks at Wilson. Wilson looks back at him. Somewhere, a bird calls. A dog barks.

"House," Wilson says. "Where are we?"

"Funhouse," House replies, but he knows even as the word leaves his mouth that it can't be true. None of this can be true. "Some kind of … trick. Mirrors and … a trick."

"A trick healed your leg?" Wilson leans down and picks something that looks like a dandelion. "This is real, House. It, it can't be, but?" He's looking at House as if he's five years old and he's sure, somehow, his big brother Greg will know the answer.

Big brother Greg wants a drink. "I'm going back," he says. He has to retrace his steps, figure out how the trick is done. He jogs the few paces to the rough stone steps, bounds up into the open doorway, and is struck full-force by a large flapping black thing coming the other way. The collision leaves him on his ass, breathless, with the man in the black coat gasping in pain right beside him.

Coat-wearing man catches his breath first, and says exactly what House is thinking: "You _idiot_."

"Who's an idiot?" House scrabbles himself into a sitting position and stares at the stranger, who's staring back indignantly. Even sitting on his ass, House has to admit the guy looks pretty pissed.

"You are," the guy grits out. "The two of you, to be precise."

Wilson takes a step forward. "Could you explain -- " he begins, but black-coated guy cuts him off.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says. "You came through without permission. Without _tickets_."

"Look," House says. "Let's start at the beginning. Who are you? What is that ... thing?"

The guy sits a little straighter. "I'm the Stationmaster," he says. "That's the Station."

"Uh-huh," House says. "And I am the Walrus."

"That cane," says the pushy guy in black. He's glaring at it like it just dug up his garden and pooped in the petunias. "Fashion accessory?"

"Limping is all the rage in Paris this year. You'd know that if you read French _Vogue_. What the hell is this ... illusion?" He can't say _place_ , because it can't really be one. Illusion it is.

Black-coat man isn't listening. "You weren't limping when you hit me."

" _You_ hit _me_. And I asked you -- _OW!_ "

House isn't sure what the guy just did; it felt like a needle jab to his shoulder, right through the sleeve. He may have had it coming; he'd let himself be distracted by a lacy pair of panties flapping on the clothesline. The Station guy, who looks like nothing so much as an angry, portly crow, is now scowling at some kind of small silver tablet in his hand. He shakes his head and mutters something to himself that House can't quite decipher, but it is obviously profane.

"You have to go," he insists, brushing dandelion fluff from his pants as he gets to his feet. "Now. And make sure you leave nothing behind."

"Not even Wilson? I swear he isn't mine. He just followed me home."

The man's unforgiving glare lands on Wilson then, assessing him for the first time. A flicker of movement, like a magic trick, and House sees the ... whatever it was that jabbed him, he guesses, in Mr. Black-Coat's thick left hand. A glint of silver between pink fingers, and Black-Coat is marching in Wilson's direction, and suddenly House feels like he's seventeen and playing hooky.

He springs up from the grass, looking for an escape route. "Hey, Wilson," he calls out, _"Run!"_

To House's astonishment, Wilson does. They're over the fence like Tom and Huck, racing each other down the street toward the shore. The beach is still there, after all.

If anything, it's moved closer.

* * *

The place where they stop running may not have a name. The flimsy roof bears no sign.

It's a typical beachside bar, more open-air than permanent structure, with just enough enclosed space to lock up the booze after hours. It reeks of sawdust, of spilled beer and boiled shrimp, with a big margarita machine behind the bar and a bunch of cheap "beach beers" on tap.

But the familiar fluttering string of plastic pennants reads _Corazón_ instead of _Corona_ , and while Tecate still bears its red-and-gold branding, the name on the can says Tecolote. Coors has become Banquet, Molson transformed into something called Antler Ale. Only the Budweiser hasn't changed.

* * *

"Maybe it was a bee," Wilson says, but his eyes are tense and it's obvious he doesn't believe a word he's saying. "A ... beach bee. One of those."

"A _beach bee?_ " House says. "Are you even listening to yourself? There were no bees." He takes another pull on his beer -- his nice, _normal_ beer -- a perfectly innocent Budweiser. Above the bartender's head, there's a big green chalkboard with an utterly foreign list of wines-by-the-glass and three different brands of absinthe. 

"No," Wilson says. "It -- "

House peels his shirt off and shows Wilson the puncture wound. It's wider than a mere pinprick, more like the mark of a large-bore needle. "He knocked me over, you moron," he says. "You saw him do it."

The bartender stops what he's doing, which is basically wiping down the counter, smearing the wet condensation rings and grime into a smoother dirty glaze. "Hey," he barks. " _Hey!_ Keep your shirt on -- we don't need any more trouble from the rackers!"

"Sorry," Wilson says. "Sorry, my ... friend thought he was ... he'd gotten a bite. Been stung. By a ... by a bug." He takes a conciliatory swallow of beer. "Is there anywhere we could get a ... paper? A newspaper?"

The bartender's steely glare subsides; he reaches under the cash register and pulls out a slim publication.

"It's just the neighborhood rag," he says. "Won't have much news in it, but it'll have the odds at Monmouth Park." He spits onto the washrag and starts cleaning the pint glasses.

* * *

The paper provides them with exactly nothing of use. They learn that there's a hurricane about to hit Cuba, which appears to be a U.S. state. They find out that Bentley makes economy cars and it's model-year closeout at the friendly local dealer. They learn that this world has a Dominic's Pizza, and okay, that might be useful. There's even a coupon.

Aside from that, it's boring, boring, more boring, so House leaves the boring to Wilson, who's good at that, and goes to have a look at the beach bar bulletin board, where he's spotted a thing that warrants closer inspection.

It's a typical "lost pet" flyer, a grainy black-and-white photograph reproduced on cheap paper so many times it's lost most of its definition. The phone number to call is in a format House doesn't recognize -- three sets of four digits, not an 800 or 888 number. He plucks the paper off the board and squints at the missing animal. The photo must be distorted, because that can't be --

"Isn't that something?" the bartender says cheerfully. "Somebody's gotta have some money, sure enough, to own a -- "

And that's where House's hearing betrays him, because at first he hears _Serbian hound_ , but that can't be right, so maybe it was _service hound_ , but that's not right either, you don't call them hounds, they're service _dogs_ , but --

"Cerberean hound," Wilson murmurs beside him. "House, he said _Cerberean hound_."

House looks away from the flyer long enough to glance at Wilson. He's staring at the poster, mouth still slightly open. The bartender is working, doing whatever bartenders do when their customers' backs are turned. He looks back at the flyer.

Six eyes. Three gaping mouths. Three slobbery tongues lolling out from the three separate heads.

_PLEASE HELP!_ The plea is printed in Comic Sans Serif, bold black on white. _MISSING FOR 2 WEEKS. FRIENDLY, ANSWERS TO BUTTERCUP_

"Myself, I'd rather have a Rottweiler," the bartender says. "Know what you're getting."

"Um," Wilson says.

"These morons, more money than brains," the bartender says. He shakes his head and leans back, every inch of his body language saying _what are ya gonna do about it?_ "Their kids love Harry Parker and so mom and pop spring for a big ole gene-crack, cute when it's a puppy but God knows what'll go wrong with it. Guy who used to come here, he spent fifteen grand on a damn griffin, hit five years old and started upchucking everything it ate. Another ten thou in vet bills, all for nothin'."

"What's the usual lifespan for a griffin?" Wilson can't seem to help asking.

"Fuck if I know. They aren't natural, it can be anything. It keeled over and the guy got his kid a plain old mutt for free outta the want ads. Now everyone's happy but me, 'cause he hardly drinks anymore."

He spits on that damn washrag again, and suddenly House has had enough. He studies the bulletin board again -- sure enough, his eye lights on a different kind of advertisement, this one for seaside vacationers.

_PINK SHELL BEACH CABINS_ , the flyer proclaims, and of course it's even printed on nauseatingly pink paper. _FULLY EQUIPPED, REASONABLE RATES! STAY A MONTH OR A WEEKEND!_

He yanks the sheet from the board. "This place," he calls to the bartender, "is it close by?" remembering with a lurching sensation that "close" has just become the same distance for him as for any other pedestrian. Because his leg works now.

"Four blocks, if that's close enough. You really wanna rent out a goddamn pink cabin?"

"You clean your glasses with spit," House answers. "I feel strangely free to disregard your opinion." He's waiting for Wilson to give him one of those patented Wilson Looks, but it turns out Wilson's got his eyes glued to the tip jar instead, studying ... _oh_.

He's figuring out whether, at this particular ... carnival, or whatever it is, the wad of cash in his wallet might as well be Monopoly money.

"They look close enough," Wilson mumbles at last, and House can't quite tell if he's talking to himself or to him. Whichever it is, Wilson hauls out his wallet and extracts a ten.

"Keep the change," he announces, and with barely a glance the bartender scoops it up and disappears it -- not into the register, but into his pocket. He grins at the two of them.

"Thanks," he says, House's line about using spit as a cleaning agent seemingly forgotten. "That's mighty white of you."

Wilson's mouth opens and closes like a beached guppy's. The bartender's face is absolutely, completely sincere.

_Huh_ , House thinks. _Isn't this interesting?_

Wilson makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a muffled hmghh.

"Come on," he says. "I ... uh ... yeah. Come on. To the ... to the Pink Beach."

"Pink Shell," House says. "Pink Shell Beach."

"Whatever," Wilson says. "Let's go."

"We are not," Wilson says, the moment they're safely out of the bartender's earshot, "renting any cabins. Pink Shell or otherwise."

"Sure. Let's just go back to the needle-wielding guy with the shed."

"House, we have to get out of here!"

"Not yet."

"What do you mean, not yet? This place -- "

"Is different, yes, I got that part." House looks around, breathes in the sea air. He shifts from foot to foot in the sand, balances on his heels, just because he can.

"Let's find out how different," he says. "Let's stay a while."

"Define 'a while.'"

House shrugs. "A few hours. A night. A ... couple of days." He sneaks a quick glance at Wilson to see how he's taking this. "Oh, come on. We're walking around in the living proof that string theory is probably right, and you don't even want to know? You aren't the least bit curious why we walk through a door and suddenly I could play beach volleyball again, if I were a totally different kind of lame?"

There are few sights more satisfying than that of Wilson on the verge of caving, not to House but to himself, when what he wants and what House wants are secretly the same thing.

"One night," Wilson concedes.

House is already thinking he'll need swim trunks.

* * *

The ocean would soothe Wilson, if it were the same Atlantic they left behind an hour ago. But it isn't; its seagulls are silent and black, with white wingbars. To the left, as they face the water, a rollercoaster juts above the rest of the skyline.

And the map for the Pink Shell place is stubbornly unhelpful, and what, Wilson wonders, will they do when they find it? No way in hell his American Express card works here.

"Breathe," House says. "All else fails, we go back to the shed. Problem solved."

Wilson watches House walking beside him, the way he used to before The Leg made everything harder than it ever should have been. "If all else fails," he agrees.

The last swallow of beer from his bottle tastes astringent and sour, and he wants something more, something strong that will burn his throat and make him stop thinking. He wants to drag House back, get them out of here before the Twilight Zone turns ugly.

That's assuming this place even exists; that he won't go to sleep and wake up in some hospital, his car crashed and House either dead or standing over him.

"Not sure I want to know," he murmurs. 

There's a trash can nearby where he can drop his empty bottle, and if this is a coma-dream, it's a vivid one, complete with the clunk of the glass and the lazy pair of wasps circling the can's metal rim. For one insane moment he thinks of trying to catch one, let it sting him and see what happens. _Pinch me, pinch me._

But ... House is all right here, and for the moment, so is he.

* * *

It's not until they're standing in the dank little public restroom that Wilson sees what House has done. That wallet House has in his hands is not House's wallet. Or Wilson's. Which means it belongs to that poor schmuck Wilson stopped to ask for directions.

"House!" Wilson hisses. "What did you do? Seriously, you --? You have to give it back!"

"What, and get caught? The object is to pick the pocket, not poke the pocket, if you know what I mean." House thumbs past the bills, turns the plastic pages of credit cards and various forms of i.d. One card catches his eye.

"Look," he says. "Guy who didn't know which way was north's a member of Mensa."

"Can you put off the smug-fest until we're somewhere safe? Take the cash, pitch the rest and let's go."

There are twenties and ones in the wallet, and House hands one of those to Wilson before they walk out.

The portrait on the one dollar bill is Benjamin Franklin.

* * *

Things here don't cost what they do back home. Twenty bucks a night for the cabin, a slat-board structure with sand in the cracks and creases, one main room, a bedroom with two single beds, a full bath, two TVs. And a tiny kitchenette that Wilson refuses to even consider using.

"It smells," he says flatly, and while House can't smell anything emanating from the ugly kitchen wallpaper, he's not going to argue about it.

House took a hundred and change off his victim. With the coupon, their Dominic's pizza is only another six.

"Give me a twenty," Wilson says. "I can get to the liquor store and back before the pizza arrives."

"Liquor store?" House hadn't noticed one.

"Two blocks south, left side. It was on the map." He holds out his hand. "Seriously, you can't expect me to cope with, with all this," -- he waves the other hand around the wicker-infested room -- "sober."

"Fine," House decides. "But don't cheap out. No coming back with this world's version of Mad Dog 20/20."

Wilson sneers at him, and since when does Wilson sneer, and he walks out the door. House watches him go and has a moment of irrational terror that not only will Wilson not come back with swill, but that he won't come back at all.

* * *

TV remote controls are as ridiculous here as at home. There are buttons marked BLK and COL, one that says SNAP and another, REPT. Half the stations he gets are in Italian, but when he turns the set off and on again, everything comes back in English.

He's just found this world's James Garner playing John Rockfort, not Jim Rockford, when Wilson comes back.

"You look like hell," House says, because Wilson does. He's stooping, closing in on himself, like he's afraid he'll break something if he stands up straight.

"You okay?"

"I will be," Wilson answers. He takes a bottle and two shot glasses from the bag he's brought in, sets them on the whitewashed wicker coffee table, and proceeds to pour. "I used to love that show," he says, nodding at the TV. "Kinda wanted to be John Rockfort."

"You mean Jim Rockford."

"Yeah," Wilson says. He's paying more attention to his drink. "Rockfort."

"His life _sucked_. That was the whole show. Why would you -- unless you're telling me your life sucked worse."

"I thought it did. I was twelve, though." Wilson has parked beside him on the sofa, a horrible overstuffed pink-and-white floral behemoth that shouldn't be as comfy as it is. He seems more like himself now, handing over the second drink, looking for but failing to find anything like a _TV Guide_. "We should just channel surf," he says. "Could learn something important."

They don't. The only real thing they _do_ learn, when the pizza finally arrives, is that they wish Dominic's delivered across dimensions. 

"Dominic's," Wilson says. "The best pizza in _two_ worlds." And then he burps.

"I love you, man," House croons, leaning into Wilson's space like a wasted fratboy.

"You're just saying that to get your grubby hands into my pizza box."

House blinks at him. "Weird. It's almost like you know me."

"Wish I didn't sometimes," Wilson grumbles.

"Liar," House says. "Liar liar, pants on fire."

Wilson smiles.

* * *

He's about to pass out. It doesn't matter that there's only a thin sleeping bag between himself and the lumpy, noisy floor of the van. House, when tired enough, can sleep damn near anywhere, sleep through everything. He'll take his turn driving when they get closer to Atlanta, and the interstate truck stops whose sad rows of vending machines will seem like manna from heaven.

The road noise lulls him into indistinct dreams, and then he's awake, instantly, his whole world narrowed down to a dark whirl of horrible noises and the screams of his friends.

Something hits his head, or his head hits something. The faint moonlight through the van's rear-door windows blinks out. He blinks out.

The next light he sees, he sees through water, and he only knows it's water because he's trying to swim, instinct moving his arms and legs but his legs are still tangled in the sleeping bag. He'll use his guitar, he thinks; they don't call it an axe for nothing. But he's still so foggy and the water is pouring into the van, and the van nose-diving, and a snake is dragging him down, no, it's a cord, an anchor. An amp, he thinks, an imp, a devil by the tail, and the water covers his face, fills his nose, his throat, fuck, no. _No._

He wakes up coughing and heaving for air, wakes up for real kicking and pawing at the covers.

"What? What the fuck," says Wilson's voice in the dark. "Jennifer?"

_Who's Jennifer?_ House wants to ask, but he thinks he knows, and besides, the taste of drowning is still fresh in his mouth.

"Dream," he says. "Go back to sleep."

"Wait. Wait, no. House?"

"The one and only."

Wilson says nothing more, just gets up and begins shoving his cheap twin bed several feet closer to House's. House doesn't ask why. He thinks he knows, again.

* * *

It's close to four in the morning when someone's car alarm wakes him, just moments before the dream would have done it anyway. The same damn dream, every time he nods off. Crandall driving, House in the back, the drift, the lurch as Crandall jerks the wheel left, the momentary weightlessness, and then the water. It's like he expects it now, because while he still wakes up, he doesn't wake up screaming.

House doesn't want swim trunks anymore.

He sits up in bed and turns the TV on and experiments, raising the volume until Wilson grunts, sighs, and starts to ask Jennifer what she's doing before he catches himself and remembers where he is. Who he is. He looks like he's eaten something he shouldn't have, like he'll be sick any time now.

"Move over," he says, and he slides out of his little bed and into House's slightly larger one. "You're having nightmares and I'm having ... I don't even know, but I want it to stop."

"Bring your pillows," says House. "You're not stealing any of mine."

* * *

_**To be continued ...** _


	2. Ticket to Ride

_Chapter Two: Ticket to Ride_

 

Existential discussions, House decides, shouldn't be had over so little sleep and so much coffee. They've covered everything from, "Did you notice the license plates say 'Cranberry State' instead of 'Garden State'?" to the question of whether pancakes are really that bad in this universe, or just in this diner. Hardly the stuff of quantum physics.

They aren't going to discuss the way they spent the dark hours before sunrise, lying together in a good soft bed that might as well have been made of rocks, for all the real rest they got. No mention will be made of whatever nightmare woke Wilson at six, and caused him to curl sideways, inward toward House until the only good option House had was to put his arm around Wilson in return.

Wilson had been warm, dry, and safe -- a desperate bulwark against House's ice-water dreams, so House took it, and they slept at least a little while, and they're never going to talk about it.

"You could see your family," House says. "Your brother; maybe Danny's all right in this -- "

"My brother's _dead_ in this world!" and for a moment House thinks Wilson's about to throw something, but no; he plonks the small pitcher of fake maple syrup back into its sticky ring on the table so hard the silverware rattles, and just like that, the outburst is over. Wilson covers his face with his hands and leaves them there.

"My brother's dead in this world," he says again, softly, and takes his hands away. "I remember going to his funeral."

"His ... "

Wilson's shoulders droop; one hand drifts up again and he scrubs at the back of his neck.

"I went to his funeral, and my wife went with me but barely spoke to me, and I went somewhere later and got wasted. Some bar. I'm ... remembering things," he says. "Remembering things I shouldn't, and ... forgetting. Forgetting _my_ things." He shakes his head. "I'm _here_ , House. There's a _me_ in this world, and I'm remembering his life."

House stops moving with his fork in mid-stab. Another Wilson. Somehow, this possibility had failed to occur to him. There was another House; of course there would have been another Wilson. Would have been, and is.

He surrenders the battle against the stack of rubbery pancakes, and yells for the check.

* * *

He doesn't stop Wilson from tromping off on his own in the increasing heat of late morning, in an effort to find the doorway back from Narnia. He hands Wilson a $10 bill (not Hamilton's portrait, but Burr's) and instructs him to bring back ice cream. "Something without nuts," he says. "This may be a brave new world, but who knows what weird allergens lurk in the shadows."

And so, having bought himself $10 worth of time, House goes back to the offices of Ye Olde Pinke Shelle.

* * *

The Pink Shell's "executive business center" is neither executive nor a real business center, consisting as it does of a decrepit old printer that smells of ink, a desktop PC with a keyboard bearing the grime of countless smutty fingers, and, at one end of the cigarette-scarred desk, a rotary-dial telephone. House lifts the receiver, holds it close to his ear but not touching because along with the lack of amenities in this place, there are no Sani-wipes. The dial tone here is different -- instead of a steady buzz, it's an oscillating _wee wee wee_ sound.

House replaces the handset on the phone base and sits down in front of the desktop. The internet is still mostly the internet -- the screen brightens at a tap of the space bar and he types in the password the front desk clerk gave him. Predictably, it's _password_.

For the first time, House is genuinely happy about the existence of Facebook.

* * *

Wilson had wandered down the shore until he found a clapboard stand with a loopy-lettered sign that read _Ice Dreams_. Three bucks later, he's got two nice big chocolate cones threatening to melt all over him, but the cabins are just over there and to hell with ice cream; back at the cabin, there's the rest of last night's bottle of whiskey.

The cabin door is locked, the interior silent, and one of the ice cream cones leaves a sad drip on the doorknob. He doesn't have a key; his friend must have them both. House. Whose first name he can't quite access right now, while he's shuffling through the sand and starting to eat the more critically-melty of the two ice creams. Maybe someone in this place's office will have seen House, and will know where he is.

 _If I'm lucky_ , Wilson thinks, _he'll be at some bar._ He shoulders open the office building door, steps inside, and remembers: Greg. House's name is Greg, and that's him over there in what looks like a janitor's closet, hunched unhappily at a too-small desk.

Wilson wastes no time interrupting House's unpleasant-looking solitude. He thrusts the untouched cone into House's view. "Here. Take yours before it turns into a puddle."

House reaches for it, refusing to look away from the computer monitor he's scowling at, and his fingers fumble against Wilson's. There's a jolt, not like electricity but like the dizzying turn of a rollercoaster, and Wilson steadies himself with a hand on House's shoulder.

The dizziness stops. His head clears; his brain stops whining at him for whiskey. He's curious now.

"You ... find something interesting?"

"That," House growls. "Look at that," and Wilson looks. At first he's not sure what's seeing, so he leans closer.

It's a black-and-white photo of a minivan, parked in front of a pond. Or ... not parked, exactly; the minivan's right front tire is blown, and the van lists to the side like a wounded animal. Mud and weeds streak the sides, and jagged glass litters the tarmac from several smashed windows. The photo's set against a black background, and above, in stark white letters, is printed _G-MAN: A Song Cycle in Three Acts_. The hint of a memory surfaces in Wilson's brain -- a child, a storm. G-man. A paternity test?

"Crandall?" Wilson ventures.

"He won a _Vicky_ for this shit," House says.

"A ... Vicky?"

"A Victrola," House snaps. "It's like a Grammy here." He takes a bite of ice cream. "I _knew_ this was a crap universe," he mutters. He punches a keyboard button, and now the monitor shows a wall of text. _"My debt to Greg House,"_ the title reads, and the first line is _"I owe G-Man a debt I can never repay."_

"Shit!" House yelps. "It's shit! I'm dead and he's famous!"

"You're -- "

"I was in that van," House says. "Crandall was driving."

Wilson is still trying to absorb the news that House is dead when House punches another button. A photo of Crandall, frozen on stage in mid-rock-star-windmill.

"That's my guitar," House says. "My _favorite_ guitar. _'I had to try to save it, since I couldn't save him, you know?'_ " he recites in a creepy falsetto, obviously repeating something he's read from this interview or fan page or whatever it is.

"And then my mother _gave_ it to him." He takes another lick of ice cream, not seeming to notice that it's starting to drip over his fingers. "That bastard got three platinum records and a Vicky with _my_ guitar."

Wilson doesn't know what to say because all the things he wants to say don't sound like him. _So? That wasn't really you; get over yourself._ Or, _Jealous much?_ , or worse yet, _I don't care_ , which is truly bizarre because Wilson does.

So he puts his hand back on House's shoulder, and this time he leaves it there, and after a while House logs off and they trudge back to the cabin.

As it turns out, Dominic's doesn't just deliver pizza.

* * *

"One hot wing left," House says.

"You can have it. I'm still ... working on the nachos."

Wilson's face says otherwise. The truth is, both of them are flush to the gills with chicken wings, chicken nachos, Mexican beer and Texas wine. The television natters away in the background, showing the same kind of vacuous programming that is apparently common to parallel worlds at two o'clock in the morning. The Chamber of Commerce pocket map that House had picked up at the library lies unfolded on the coffee table.

"Okay," House says, squinting at the map. "We think the way back is ... here." He stabs with one finger at the quadrant he's circled in red. "And you ... are here." He stabs at another point, off the map, next to a dab of hot sauce.

"What?" Wilson says. 

"You," House repeats. "Not you, but ... _you_."

It takes a moment for Wilson's brain to grind through the gears. "You mean _him_ ," he says.

"You."

"Him. The other me."

"Where is he?"

Wilson shakes his head. "Not a good idea, House."

"Where is he? Come on, I know you know."

"Chicago." Wilson rubs at his eyes. "It's still called Chicago here, but it's on Lake Nicolet, not Lake Michigan."

"Fine," House says. "We'll just take a detour before we go back -- "

"House," Wilson says, and House looks at him.

"You want to save him," Wilson says, "because ... because you're always trying to save me." Wilson looks so tired. "House, this guy, I told you. I remember his life. His _whole_ life. He's a miserable asshole who hates himself and he doesn't have a real friend in the world, and you have to believe me that you can't help him."

"You don't know that." It's a hollow protest, though. He wants Wilson to be wrong, because the Wilson who is here is still Wilson, right? The same way Crandall was Crandall, and House was House. "You don't deserve to have such a crappy life. Not in any universe."

"Then mail him a self-help book and let's go home. Your concern is touching, truly, but has it seriously not occurred to you that this universe might kill me?"

House opens his mouth, then closes it.

"There's only room for one of us," Wilson says. "Who's to say which of us it will be?" He takes another swallow of wine. "He may be miserable. He may be an asshole. But he doesn't deserve to die."

"That's not how it works," House says. "He's the ... the established Wilson, so -- "

"House," Wilson says. "Listen to yourself. You're trying to make this something scientific. Something logical. I'm the one remembering his life. He'll disappear, and I'll take over." He sits back, a curious expression on his face. "So in a way ... I'll be dead. Because I'll be him. And I don't want to be him."

"That's a stupid theory. You're the transplant, so if the immune system is going to reject something, it'll be you, not him."

"And then I'll be not merely dead, but really most sincerely dead. It won't matter which of us is right, House."

Wilson does have a point there. And House still wants to ignore it, to go grab Wilson the Second and shake him and make him see. Which is doubtless a very, very bad idea.

"We need to leave before I do anything really stupid," House says. That wine looks very good, so he pours himself some. "Anything else stupid. Let's go find the shed. Now."

"Yes, at two in the morning." Wilson watches him gulp down what's in his glass, and then calmly refills it for him. "Because the smart thing is to go blundering around in the dark. When we don't know who or what is out there, or even where the damn shed was, and if we run into Buttercup, we will never see her coming."

"So what you're suggesting," House guesses, "is that we do it in the morning, with hangovers, instead."

"Like sensible people," Wilson says. "Yes."

House drains his glass again, nods, and holds it out for Wilson to pour him another. At least tonight they will get some kind of sleep.

* * *

They have, indeed, slept. Not well and not for as long as they would have liked, because the nightmare started again as soon as House's sleeping brain sobered up. He was yelling at Miller, their useless drummer, when he woke. Only it turned out that Miller was Wilson, half on top of House not because their shitty old van had flipped over a guard rail but because that was where Wilson had settled, drunk off his ass.

It's ten-something and the sun is high above the water by the time they shuffle down the street to the Best Little General Store. They're greeted outside the door by the store's namesake -- a chubby, child-sized wooden statue in a painted grey uniform with gold trim. The sad accessories include a Civil War-style Southern forage cap with a crossed-rifles badge on the front and a pair of lens-less glasses perching on its button nose. A white cotton beard combed to a point is glued to its chin. It's the demonic bastard love-child of Santa Claus and Colonel Sanders. House half-expects it to be holding out a bucket of crispy fried children.

They look at it, and at each other.

"You think they'll mind," Wilson says, "if I want my coffee black?"

* * *

They walk out with hot, strong coffee, and greasy breakfast biscuits wrapped in thin wax paper, served up by a blowsy blonde whose name tag reads _Karlene_ , and who'd smiled and flirted with both of them. The biscuits are soft and light, flaky and buttery, enclosing fried chicken and fried eggs and slices of red, ripe tomato, all of it dripping from the crinkly wax paper and down House and Wilson's fingers. Good, so good that they're eating, walking, and unfolding their little map at the same time. So good that it takes House a moment to realize Wilson's not beside him anymore. He stops and looks back.

A woman in hair rollers and a bathrobe is trundling a bag of garbage to the curb. The only other sign of life is the small child pedaling a molded plastic car in furious circles on what is presumably his parents' lawn, while a pair of birds swoop and scold him.

Wilson is gone.

"No," House says, and the woman with the trash bag looks over her shoulder at him on her way back up her driveway. House hates her. He turns around slowly, looking. 

"Wilson!"

 _Calm_ , he thinks. _Calm, calm._ He's got one bite left of his breakfast and he takes it, gulping it down as it sticks in his throat.

_"Wilson!"_

"Over here," comes the reply from somewhere to the left, and House is so relieved he thinks he might cry. Maybe he will, after he punches Wilson in the nose for vanishing on him _here_.

He finds Wilson standing over something large and dark, in the shallow ditch along a cross street.

"I found Buttercup," he says.

The dog is on her side, two mouths open and the other closed, with the tip of a still-pink tongue sticking out. The three eyes they can see are all shut. Whatever happened, it can't have been too long ago.

"I saw a bird fly up," Wilson says, "and ... a rabbit or something, in the grass. I came over to look ... "

"Doesn't even stink yet," House observes. His shadow falls over the body. "Doesn't make sense."

"The not-stinking part, or the part where -- "

"The part where there's no apparent cause of death." House wedges his foot beneath the dog's front legs, under the shoulder, and tries to lever it upward, but the weight of the solid, Akita-like body is too much. He crouches and grabs the legs instead. "Little help with the rear?"

Wilson grimaces, no doubt imagining all kinds of alternate-universe germs, but he does it. The body is either going into or coming out of rigor, and a couple ribs are showing; she'd been a little underweight. Other than that, nothing. No sign of injury, no marks, no evidence of disease.

"Three tails," Wilson says. "Can you imagine what that looked like in motion?" He sounds sad but House refuses to look at his face.

"Probably a genetic defect," he says instead. "You heard the bartender -- engineered pets are a big deal here. Heart attack, aneurysm, who knows? Most likely dead before she knew what hit her." 

He wipes his hands with one of the Little General's paper napkins. "Too bad," he says, stepping away from the corpse. "Way cuter than I thought she'd be."

"I don't like it here," Wilson says quietly. "Let's go find the shed."

"Right," House says. "The shed," and then waits until Wilson's back is turned before he takes out his phone. 

The shed, if they've guessed correctly, is some three blocks north.

* * *

**_To be continued ..._ **


	3. The Long Way Home

_Chapter Three: The Long Way Home_

 

The shed is not three blocks north. Or four, or six; it is not south, it is not anywhere.

They've been around and around this little barrier island, and they keep winding up right back here, at the cute little white wooden house, with its cute little fence and its cute little garden and the garden arbor and the roses and its clothesline flapping in the breeze.

It has to be the place, but the shed is not merely gone, it's --

"It can't be here," Wilson says. "It couldn't have been here. There's not even a mark on the ground. If they moved it, you'd see, there'd be ... a space."

"If you or I moved it. If some vindictive bastard from outer space moved it, on the other hand, maybe not."

"Wait. You think the, the cop, or whatever he was, was an _alien?_ "

"I think it's four in the afternoon, we never got lunch, and there's exactly one person in this whole damn town who has some answers."

Wilson raises an eyebrow: a question.

"It's a pan-universe rule," House pronounces, "that bartenders know everything."

* * *

The little beachside bar is just as quiet as the first time they were there, and the same bartender is doing the same bartender-y things, although instead of wiping down the bar this time, he's sorting tiny paper parasols into sets of different colors. The TV in the corner is tuned to a sports channel, and Wilson takes a look while he waits for his drink. It's a basketball game, something the announcer is calling the _Coast-to-Coast Classic_. He looks more closely, tipping his head back to read the names of the teams -- the New York Knicks are playing the Reno Reef Sharks, and while there's a voice in the back of Wilson's mind saying plaintively "But Nevada doesn't _have_ a coastline," another voice is quite positive that in this place, it _does_.

"You guys here to see Lowery?" the bartender inquires cheerfully. "I got word he's busy tonight."

"Lowery?" House says.

The bartender smiles, puts a blue parasol into the blue pile.

"The guy you morons ran away from," he says. "Hefty, big bones, looks like a big black bird. That Lowery. Said he tried to talk to you two and you took off like cats outta hell." He stops sorting long enough to shove House's beer and Wilson's scotch across the counter. "What, you think you're the only ones who aren't from here?"

"We're not ... wait. Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

The bartender's smile grows wider. Three green parasols for the green pile. 

"But you stayed," House says. "Why -- "

"Because I wasn't already here. I'm a spark, not gap circuits like you poor saps. Anyway, Lowery'll be at the diner tomorrow, you can see him there. You want some nuts to go with those drinks? Pickled eggs?"

"No. Look, his -- Lowery's idea of 'talking' involved stabbing me with some kind of -- "

"Bug zapper. DNA sample confirms where you came from. Lets him boot your ass back to the right place. It's the real jake." On the TV, a slew of commercials is just ending and the main event coming back on. "You don't shut up and let me watch this game, I'll boot you myself."

Wilson notices a matchbook close by and picks it up.

 _THE CROW BAR_ , the cover proclaims, the blazing red letters circling the head of a laughing crow, _WHERE YOU WON'T KNOW WHAT HIT YOU_.

The Knicks win going away, 102 - 88. The pickled eggs are terrible.

* * *

Lowery drags back into town with his head aching like it might pop. And he still has to deal with these idiots. Doctors, supposed to be _smart_ , but here they are fucking around in this universe where they don't belong, and Lowery had to run off and let them, because no sooner did those two crash the Station than the damn Triangle spit another little airplane across. A half dozen people and a couple tons of metal, charter flight out of Charlotte Amalie -- the kind of problem that demands full and instantaneous attention. It was a huge, tricky redirect, just him and Colfax managing the whole goddamn thing, with Colfax grousing and bitching every step of the way like he always does. It had taken three -- _three!_ \-- phase intervals to get everything put back together, and Lowery had hardly slept the entire time.

That's one thing he's sure he has in common with his two Strays, although he doesn't know which would be worse -- being a Walking Ghost like Dr. House, or a Dopp like Dr. Wilson. Lucky all he has to do is get them back through the Station, not solve Existential Crisis No. 4,293.

* * *

Their plan worked about as well as they could have hoped. Buy a couple bottles of high-proof rocket fuel at the Crow Bar, where Wilson's currency was welcome; make a last call to Dominic's; weave their way back to the relative safety of their cabin; proceed to get even more wasted than they were the night before.

Wilson has been drinking a lot, since they got here. House hasn't mentioned it, but he's noticed. They're at breakfast and there's Wilson, looking sadly at his glass of juice, his hand straying inside his jacket as if to reach for a flask of something else.

This is aberrant behavior for the James Wilson that House knows. At least he's still ordering normal food -- waffles, hash browns, fluffy scrambled eggs. It's a typical Wilson Diner Breakfast, except for one thing.

"You didn't get any bacon," House says.

Wilson's distracted, looking over the local real estate pamphlet he picked up at the door.

"No," he says, eyes skimming the fine print, the washed-out photos of split-level ranches. "It's not ko-- " He cuts himself short, stares at the paper a moment longer, then takes a sip of orange juice.

"We have to get out of here," he says, and House is pretty sure he doesn't mean the diner. He's got his leg resting against House's, under the table where nobody will notice. "But I just ... I don't see how that's going to work if the shed is gone."

Neither does House, but he's not going to admit that when Wilson's already teetering on the edge. "Bartender Guy didn't seem too concerned," he says. "Sure, he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but ... "

He's about to suggest they go back there and demand more information, when his plans are interrupted by the arrival of a looming pudgy presence in a jet black coat.

"Never thought I'd say this," House says between sips of coffee, "but I think I'm happy to see you."

* * *

The shed is right where it should be. 

"Okay, how'd you do it?" House says. He doesn't expect an answer, and isn't surprised when he doesn't get one.

"Gentlemen," Lowery says, "goodbye." He half-bows, inviting them through the open door.

"That's it?" House says. "You just ... let us go? Now that we've peeked behind the curtain? Seen the wizard?"

"House," Wilson mutters.

"What do you _want_ me to do?" Lowery counters. 

"Oh, I don't know," House says. "Maybe make us disappear for good? I mean, what if we call the _authorities_?"

_"House!"_

"I _am_ the authorities," Lowery snaps. "You think yours -- you think _anyone_ will believe you? Besides, I'm not in the neutralization division. Not my area." He takes hold of the door and waggles it back and forth. "Go," he growls. _"Now."_

* * *

"This is not the beach," House announces, glaring out the door into the darkness. "I want my money back."

He's looking across a weedy yard to an elegant old wooden porch, where a single light shines down on a single human figure. If he didn't need answers he'd already be mocking the scene for its multiple cliches: The figure is a woman, past her 50s, in a rocking chair, and that glinting shape across her lap can only be a gun.

"We're not armed," House calls out, while Wilson jostles him over to get a look out the door for himself. "This may be the dumbest question I've ever asked in my life: Where are we?"

"Name wouldn't mean much to you," she calls back. "You'd best come on out a while, though. Stay in there right now, no telling where you end up next."

She has a nondescript American accent, the kind of indefinite "NPR voice" that means the announcer could be from anywhere. The long gun is a rifle, the same kind of small caliber weapon his dad used to call a _varmint scraper_.

"Can't never be too careful," she says when she sees him eying the gun. "Lampwights don't keep to regular hours like normal folk."

At least he thinks she said lampwights. Maybe he misheard and she actually said lamp hikes or lamb pipes or even _lanky whites_ , which would fit him and Wilson, but --

"House," Wilson says, and House realizes he's been standing there in something suspiciously resembling a daze for at least a minute. He gives himself a mental shake.

"Okay," he says. "Answer this then -- who are you?"

"I'm the Stationmaster," she says.

Wilson groans.

"No," House says. "No, see, we've _met_ the Stationmaster, and -- "

"You met _Lowery_ ," the woman corrects. "He's _one_ of the Stationmasters."

"And ... how many _Stationmasters_ are there?"

"Enough," she says crisply. "Until there aren't, and then you'll notice."

"Notice _what?_ "

"The universe collapsing, I 'spect."

Something flickers in the night, something like the biggest, greenest firefly House has ever seen.

"Ghoom," the woman says. "Won't do you no harm; it's just curious." She sets the rifle down, leaning it carefully against the porch railing, and stands up. "You boys got shunted sideways by a bubble. Clear up in a few minutes, most likely. Good thing, too, 'cause I got dinner on the stove."

The ghoom vanishes in midair as a silent dark shape swoops past.

"Owl," she says, sighing. "Nothing else'll touch the things, but an owl'll eat 'em like candy. It's all right, there's another clutch hatching even now."

Another ghoom flutters downward, lands on the top of House's arm. His muscles tingle and the hairs tickle, but it's not an unpleasant feeling, nothing like the painful _pop!_ and sting of static electricity on a dry day. This is soft, a sable paintbrush against his skin.

On closer inspection, he sees that it has two compound eyes, four feathery antennae, a fuzzy tail that curves upward, and no wings. It flies without wings. _Of course_ , House thinks. _Of course it does._

"Could hear you two comin' from a mile away," the old woman says, and swats without much conviction at a ghoom buzzing around her head.

"It was Wilson here," House says. "Never graduated Girl Guides."

"Not _now_ ," the woman says. "Half hour ago." She shakes her head. "I don't know what it is about Lowery that brings the strays in from the sphere."

"But we just -- " Wilson begins, and House knows his next words are going to be "got here," but instead of finishing, Wilson seems to think better of the idea and closes his mouth. He's watching about a dozen of those strange bugs, lit up from within, flying in perfect sync toward the window of the house.

They float ever closer to their reflections in the glass, and then they fly _through_ it, into the house, leaving a series of shimmering phosphorescent marks on the unbroken surface.

House doesn't even want to ask anymore; he's been down this rabbit hole so long that all he wants is to see the sun. Whatever just happened, it seems to mean something, because their reluctant hostess got to her feet when she saw it.

"I'd invite you boys to stay for rice and beans, but you best get back in the potting shed now. Bubble's burst, but another can bump in anytime."

Wilson isn't asking questions either. Obedient, they climb the creaky steps back into the "potting shed" and the gun-toting woman shuts the door behind them.

"Is this even happening?" Wilson wants to know. There's light leaking in from around the door frames, just enough so House can see the dusty floor. Three seconds ago, there wasn't enough light outside to come in like that. "Is it? Has any of this happened?"

"No," says House.

"Good. I was getting worried."

House steps forward to open the door, his fingers just brushing the cool brass knob, when Wilson's hand closes over his own.

"House," Wilson says. "Wait."

"Why? What now?"

"House," Wilson says again. "You know -- you saw -- time passed differently. There." He moves to stand beside House, still clasping House's hand. "What if," he says, "what if ... we're like Rip van Winkle? What if ... we were gone for a short time, but a _lot_ of time passed at home?"

"How much time?" 

Wilson shakes his head. "Ten years? Twenty?"

 _If twenty, why not fifty?_ an annoying little voice in House's head singsongs. _If fifty, why not one hundred? Why not two hundred? Why not a **thousand? A million?**_

The small hairs on the back of House's neck rise. He tries to silence the little voice, to blot out the images it's conjuring up -- a barren shore, an empty sea, the last glow of a Sun running down.

"If it's wrong," House says, "we'll go back, find Lowery, and beat the shit out of him."

And with that, he opens the door.

* * *

The light is blinding, but it's the light of what seems to be a perfectly ordinary sun, hanging over what House dearly hopes is the perfectly ordinary Atlantic. _Their_ Atlantic.

They _must_ be home. There's that hot dog stand, the same guy in the doofy PURE BEEF hat with the paper horns sticking out from the sides. 

His leg hurts.

He might have to lean on Wilson, if it's really bad. He's pretty sure he forgot his cane at the Crow Bar. 

Behind them, the _camera obscura_ sits still and empty, just another seedy beachside attraction.

House rests his palm, just for a moment, on the sun-warm wood. _How many Stations?_ he wonders. _How many Masters?_ And: _Where do I sign up?_

A gentle hand on his shoulder brings him back.

They make their way over the hot midday sand to the hotter parking lot. Wilson's car is still there, right beside the sign informing visitors that anything parked overnight will be towed.

"I don't get it," House grumbles, while he waits for Wilson to unlock the doors. "But I'll take it."

His phone is still in his jeans pocket, so he takes it out and squints at the date it shows.

Friday, 4 p.m., to all appearances just five hours after they ... left. Just another hour on the highway, and they'll be at the Wildwood Resort, where their nice, comfy, modern hotel room awaits.

House sincerely hopes nothing in it is pink. 

He settles into the scorching-hot seat of the car, cranks up the air, and goes looking on the phone for the photos he took of poor dead Buttercup.

Naturally, they aren't there. The three images consist of static, blackness, and _ERROR CORRUPTED FILE_. He doesn't mention it to Wilson.

* * *

The view from their room is beautiful.

They're up on the balcony in the warm salt breeze, and House looks down at the courtyard, at the huge pool with its underwater lights that make the whole thing glow green. Nobody's using it, and House would take that chance for solitude if this were an ordinary night.

He'll soak in the room's nice deep tub, later. Turn on the jets, absorb the heat, and forget. It's going to be a while before he feels like swimming again. 

They ought to call out for dinner, he thinks, or call room service, and get anything other than pizza.

"House," Wilson says, and something in his tone makes House turn around quickly. Wilson is staring through the sliding doors, into the shadows of their room, where a bright green spark of light floats up like a will-o-the-wisp.

"Huh," says House.

"I saw it on your jacket. It, it was in the lining, or crawled out of a pocket, or something. We'd better try -- "

But the incandescent bug shoots forward, right through the glass doors, and is gone in the night before Wilson can finish the thought.

"You were saying?"

"Shit. We don't even know what it _does_." Wilson rubs the back of his neck, and steps over to the railing to look for the ghoom. From this height, the barrier island is a long strip of sparkling lights, halogen and fluorescent, mercury vapor and sodium, stretching for miles north and south. Even if they could move that fast, there'd be no hope of finding the bug.

"Well ... " Whatever he was going to say, he doesn't finish it. His shoulders slump. "I guess ... I just hope it wasn't ... "

"Pregnant." 

Somewhere below, blocks away, a dog begins to bark.

 

~ fin


End file.
